


Shifting Visions

by Resoan



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, WILL Contain Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-09 03:46:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3235097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Resoan/pseuds/Resoan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set before the fall of the elven empire, Dirthamen has a vision of the future, and a dismal future at that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shifting Visions

**Author's Note:**

> This is my attempt at writing from the elven god Dirthamen’s perspective. It is before the gods are sealed away, though there are hints that things are going awry in the empire.
> 
> I feel as though I should also mention that in my interpretation of Dirthamen, he has prophetic ability, but like all things to do with the future, it’s never clear, and he can’t be sure what he sees will actually come to pass.

The door to the inner sanctum rumbled quietly as it opened from the inside, several priests scattering as Dirthamen emerged, dark circles under his eyes and his lips drawn into a thin line. He moved fluidly through the flock: not once stopping to greet any of the devoted acolytes; there was too much to do, too much to consider and plan, and knowing Fen’Harel, he hadn’t much time in which to do so.

Long tendrils of inky black hair flared out behind him with every step, the long folds of his cloak and robes billowing similarly; this particular raiment had been a gift from Falon’Din: and as such was several shades of black and gold, interweaving in an intricate pattern that caught the eyes. Despite the god’s association with death, he was haughty and proud, and more than once he’d told Dirthamen that if he were simply more ambitious, he would wield more power among the others of their pantheon.

 Power did not appeal to Dirthamen, insofar as Falon’Din considered it; Falon’Din craved respect and obedience: control and devotion from as many elves as possible, and Dirthamen had to pause in his steps and will away the image of his brother after he’d been bloodied at his own temple by the rest of the gods. Dirthamen could, however,  _respect_ power: the sort of power that bent others to his will, even if it held no true allure for him.

The god wove his way through the labyrinthine passages of his own temple: guided by braziers of fire and veilfire, and those he passed which were not lit he did so with a simple and singular snap of his wrist. Magic came as easily to him as breathing: a power which slumbered in his very limbs, but did not burden him or weigh him down as it did others. Few could profess better control, better ability, though Dirthamen was not the type to boast even so; magic was a utility, and he would be remiss in not seizing upon it.

An initiate paused in the atrium of his temple: a girl given to his temple three years prior, he recalled, though her name escaped him. She kept her eyes averted from him out of deference, though he was pleased to not feel any fear from her – such was Elgar’nan’s expertise, and his eyes hardened slightly at the thought. “The Dread Wolf awaits,” she informed him, and Dirthamen turned his own down to her, his lips curling into the lightest of smiles.

“I am well aware,” he informed her, and he pretended not to see the way her cheeks colored at being addressed. She inclined her head even further before scurrying out of his way, and Dirthamen’s small smile lingered as he headed for his personal chambers – undoubtedly where the Dread Wolf would await his audience. Shelves as high as three elves were tall lined Dirthamen’s chamber, his desk flanked on either side by the twin ravens who spoke intelligibly only until Dirthamen’s eyes narrowed in their direction and they fell silent; their cages were hardly adequate to their size, but he knew they were too dangerous to allow out even once to stretch their wings.

“It has been some time, Dread Wolf,” Dirthamen greeted the man currently leaning against his desk, a book propped against his thigh as he leafed through it. “Might I inquire as to the reason for your visit?” Dirthamen lifted an eyebrow as he asked his question, and he found himself unsurprised to hear the Dread Wolf chuckle before setting the book he’d gotten back upon its proper shelf.

“As if you don’t already know, my friend.” Fen’Harel smiled a rakish smile before embracing Dirthamen, and the pair dissolved into quiet chuckles before Dirthamen gestured to one of the many chairs surrounding his desk.

“As I’ve told you many times before, the future is not quite so clear. I had suspicions you would come, but nothing more.” Fen’Harel nodded absently – he’d heard Dirthamen’s explanation of his prophetic abilities more times than he could count, after all.

“I suppose you’ve heard Elgar’nan’s newest edict,” Fen’Harel began without preamble, the smile abruptly gone from his face as a hand balled into a fist on his knee. “Concerning the slaves – his own  _people_.” It was clear from the Dread Wolf’s tone how he felt about the news, but Dirthamen’s expression never once shifted; those who served in his temples were technically considered slaves, bore the vallaslin Elgar’nan had insisted upon to distinguish – more likely to track down those who fled his own service – though Dirthamen did not treat them like slaves. They were as children to him: come to learn from him, to learn how he discovered his secrets, and to be stewards of such secrets, especially those which promised dire consequences should they fall into the hands of another more ambitious or cruel.

“I have,” Dirthamen answered eventually, and Fen’Harel lifted his head to catch the other god’s gaze; the Dread Wolf was angry, so very _angry_ , and Dirthamen could feel his agitation mount the longer his own expression remained void of something similar. “You know Mythal will not allow it to stand for long. You must give her time,” Dirthamen remarked, the god choosing his wording carefully, though from the slight narrowing of Fen’Harel’s eyes, Dirthamen knew he hadn’t fooled the other.

“You presume I have not spoken with Mythal,” Fen’Harel answered brusquely, grey eyes flashing and the reds of his dark auburn hair shifting with his movement as he leaned closer to the desk and the candle lit upon it. “Elgar’nan has the support of Falon’Din and Andruil, and is convinced he needs not change – that those rest of us will follow his lead because he expects…nay,  _demands_  it.”

A tense silence followed, one in which Dirthamen felt only exasperation; why was it always his closest of kin that latched on to the terrible ideas with reckless abandon? Andruil he could understand, but Falon’Din? There  _had_  to be a sense of something better within him; Dirthamen  _believed_  that, though some days, his belief withered in the face of harsh reality. “When will you  _act_ , Dirthamen? You sit on your secrets, turning a blind eye to all the horrific evils your brother and father commit.  _You!_  You who are in the best position to stop them!” Dirthamen visibly winced away from Fen’Harel’s words, and not for the first time, felt something heavy settle deep in his gut; everyone faulted him for being complacent: for not acting on what he discovered, but that had been his failing when he’d been young. Acting on the information he discovered had gotten others killed, and he’d vowed ever since not to let blood on his hands ever again.

“Your silence speaks louder than you ever will, Dirthamen. When the blood of your  _slaves_  runs through the temple from Elgar’nan’s vengeance or Falon’Din’s bloodlust, you will wish you’d  _done_ something rather than sat on your hands.” Dirthamen’s smile was sad as Fen’Harel stood abruptly, his jaw set and his eyes flashing dangerously; the Wolf was impulsive and headstrong, so self-assured Dirthamen could only envy him, though he did not stop the other from traipsing away angrily. Once, they’d been close: an intimacy that had drawn Falon’Din’s attention and perhaps had led to the falling out between him and Fen’Harel. Dirthamen shifted uncomfortably in his own chair, guilt still weighing heavily on his mind. Nimble fingertips rubbed at his temples, though it did nothing to abate the oncoming headache: he’d been having those more frequent of late which was why he’d been meditating for longer periods of time.

Brief flashes consumed him then: pressure building behind his eyes until he blinked and what he saw was not the interior of his temple, but rather  _Mythal’s_. The goddess,  _his mother_ , sat on her throne in judgment, golden eyes narrowed – he could already see that she’d made her decision, and it would not be in the penitent’s favor. She stood when the foolish man finished his pleas for mercy, and the look she lowered was punctuated with a cutting gaze that might have made Dirthamen flinch had he been yet a child. “ _Elgar’nan will determine a punishment to fit your crime, I should think. It is clear to me you deserve no mercy_.” The man shrieked as two of Mythal’s sentinels drew forward, though his shrieking soon turned into laughter – a sound that made Dirthamen’s skin crawl.

“ _You think you have judged_ _ **me**_ _, oh mighty All-Mother? You know_ _ **nothing**_ _.”_ In the time it took Dirthamen to blink, Mythal had somehow doubled over, an arm curled around her midsection, and several of her priests rushed forward to her aid; the man she had judged was mostly forgotten as more priests circled around Mythal, though Dirthamen’s blood ran cold when he saw Mythal drop to her knees, a cough echoing in the temple as blood dripped from her lips and onto the ground.

“ **No**!” Dirthamen’s shout echoed in the halls of his own temple: a heart-wrenching, guttural sound that had ushered in several of his own acolytes who all gazed it him with concern and worry marring their features. His heart beat far too quickly in his chest, and his lips trembled as he struggled to breathe; Dirthamen did not even hear the questions from his priests – asking as to his welfare, if he required anything, if he needed a moment alone to regain himself…

There was no way Mythal would die.  _None_. His heart ached at the thought of losing her, and only when he lifted his eyes and saw all those crowded around him did he realize he was no longer alone. It took longer than Dirthamen would have anticipated to convince the others that he was well and truly fine, and even then, it was spoken with a farce of a smile on his lips. Mythal in such a vulnerable state would haunt his dreams and waking hours equally. What was perhaps more alarming was that Dirthamen had no real idea as to who might dare perpetrate such a crime. Mythal was the only one capable of holding Elgar’nan’s impulses in check, and that was for  _everyone’s_ benefit; the question remained: whom did it help if Mythal were to fall?  _Can even we gods perish?_  It was a question Dirthamen couldn’t even begin to answer.


End file.
